Excerpts from the Eschaton
by AziDahaka
Summary: Bits of story from the Eschaton campaign, that I, the DM, was unable to tell. Here's the first bits. Most unpleasantness results from the deaths, mainly Daemon's. Rest in peace.
1. The Many Deaths

**The Many Deaths**

Wilhelm collapsed to the ground as the bolt of pure force slammed into his back. He had just lost his leg, now replaced by the warg's. Then they had to march dozens of miles to Fort Balthazar, and now that they were here, Isszhta was trying to kill him. Wilhelm used the stone wall to pull himself upwards, fingers scraping across cold stone. He turned himself about laboriously, then sprung at the Veran. His fist smashed into her jaw, knocking her a few steps back. He had to take advantage. The thief pulled out his crossbow from beneath his cloak. As he looked down to load the bolt, he felt a cold hand against the side of his head. Isszhta moved fast. Lethally so. As the ice spread across his face, the dagger in the left hand rose, then fell, sending chunks of frozen flesh skittering across the stone floor.

* * *

Willem dashed away from the animate statue. Pulling from the Astral, he threw an owl at it from deep within his pockets, distracting the golem for a second. Not enough. The Masked Man's guard was still gaining on him, and the bard had nothing left. Every time he drew energy from the Astral, he had to stop, recite the words, perform the motions, and maintain concentration for a few critical seconds. Willem heard the slams of the stone feet behind him. Massive fingers grabbed his head, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. Willem thrashed against its grip, but it was inevitable. The vise slammed shut, a resounding crash followed by a cloth-muddled thump.

* * *

Lares struggled against his bonds as Drasius grew closer, holding out the metal scroll. The messenger felt cold valchite against his face as the Knight pressed the scroll against Lares' head. The cold bite of metal changed instantly to searing pain, as the world grew bright. Lares felt his bonds fall away, and staggered, blinded, agonized, away from his tormentors. The heat and light grew to a crescendo. As the rune flared, the crowd turned away. The light was followed by a slam. Thunder roared in the street. The detonation tore the drow apart, sending fragments of bone arcing through the air in a macabre rain. Drasius grinned. The Ra-priest was next.

* * *

Daemon whirled about, sending another arrow at the encroaching energons. Nothing more than spheres of energy with long, dark tendrils, the shots barely scratched the things. They began to approach the warrior, tentacles outstretched. A lone, curious tendril alighted upon Daemon's arm. Where it touched, energy played across skin and flesh withered and collapsed, fetid, full of rot. Ever-agile, the human recoiled, dancing backwards. The energons that had circled behind the Verdigris mercenary caught and rent with waiting arms, arcs of energy flensing away chunks of flesh. Daemon screamed, collapsing to the metal-coated floor. A singular tendril caressed the fallen warrior's face, removing her eye and jaw in a steaming slurry. Comrades looked on as the body was reduced naught but decaying flesh and evaporating blood. Daemon was no more.

* * *

"Xerivious," the titanic half-dragon rumbled, "Daemon is dead."

"I did the best I could!" the cleric of Iisan whimpered, still casting glances at what remained of the corpse.

Sigurd placed both hands upon Xerivious's shoulders.

"You served well. You could have served better."

"I - wait, Sigurd, no-"

 _Snap._

* * *

Dragon looked up as Sigurd approached.

"You look well, wyrmling," the ebon-scaled behemoth said, eying his target.

"What do you want, Sigurd?" the mercenary leader responded, toying with his coins.

"You know what I think of dragons. Two allies of mine already died here."

"I know. Daemon was my friend! But now's for - two?"

Sigurd drew the Harvest. Dragon took flight, bounding away from the murderous beast. Sigurd closed the distance in a single stride, bringing the khopesh down. Purple light flickered in the hallway as Dragon's wings turned to dust on the wind. Dragon whispered his last.

"Why?"

"My brethren before. You now, my father later. Then all the rest of your kind."

The carving knife bit deep into the brass dragon's flesh, setting free his blood and viscera.

* * *

Isszhta swore as she clambered over bits of rubble where a Siegebreaker tower had fallen. Her dress was tattered, hair burnt, fingers raw, her whole body bruised, battered, broken. Vanagandr wasn't a city anymore. It was a charnel house. Isszhta herself had to kill two of her guards. Cyrus had commanded them to kill anyone nearby. As the witch dropped off a block of masonry, she felt a gust of wind from the normally-placid summer air. A fell heat was carried on that infernal zephyr, rage and pride and sorrow all in one. Isszhta sighed, releasing all her breath, letting her arms fall to her sides, then turned. Cyrus's eyes, like crucibles of molten steel, followed her movements. His iridescent gold-crimson scales flexed, snapped together into plates, then disconnected into smaller, almost perfectly triangular pieces as he moved.

Isszhta backtracked in her mind, trying to find any sorcery to get her out of this alive. Nothing. She was spent. Useless. And Cyrus had no need for useless things.

* * *

Eamon jolted up as Rax entered the padded cell. The dwarf's wide, eerily dilated eyes flickered from Rax's face to random places in the room, tracing out unrecognizable patterns. Behind the Veran came another dwarf. Eamon recognized him. Sam, the priest. Her friend.

"Hello, Eamon. I brought you a friend today," Rax said gently, almost crooning. "You remember him, don't you?"

"Forgetting. So pretty," Eamon said, voice quavering, "like the cherry-tree blossoms."

"Yes. Like the sakura. Can you tell Sam what you told me, about the woman?"

Eamon slowly stood up and turned, rotating to face away from the visitors. The former soldier's voice started as a whisper.

"No time has she wandered and not seen. Remembrance of days halcyon in glory stark in her mind," Eamon began, as if repeating a chant, "with all futures merely solemnity."

Sam glanced, worried, at Rax. It was far worse than he had expected.

"Austere is she, born not of the dominions nor eras of this world. Harsh and stern, sciences of the damned and dying are children all to her lineage." Eamon's voice was frantic, terrified, and her volume was only increasing.

"Eyes of gold forever accusing! Benign is she, for benignity is her afore-gifted role! In the dusks and dawns of Gaia, abominable methods hers are bespoken of in whisper and trembling tale of destruction!" Eamon still held still, as if petrified, but her words were hysterical, shrieking.

"Woman not! Fury and Woe of all Mankind, Judgement bequeathed by the Uncaring Progenitor!"

Eamon stopped, drawing ragged, heaving breaths. She turned to Sam, whispering.

"Know It not by Flesh, but by Mind, for Thought is Its being. The Caretakers Primeval, Its kin are now Spirit. Now either It or Man will join Them."

Eamon collapsed, tears and mucus and saliva streaming down her face, weeping uncontrollably. She convulsed occasionally, writhing from unknown torments. Sam turned and ran from the room. Rax stayed a moment longer, pity in her eyes. Then she walked from the room, pulling a guard aside for an order.

"Put her out of her misery."


	2. Villain Monologues

**Villain Monologues**

To Whom It May Concern,

The recent actions of the Verdigris Mercenary Corps have been noted by concerned individuals. The incidents surrounding the unfortunate death of Lord Uther Pendragon were considered unacceptable by several interested parties, myself included. Because of these recent events and the overall nature of the Verdigris Mercenary Corps, it has been decided that decisive action is the only resolution to these issues.

The three primary complaints against the Corps are thus: that the Corps is amoral, that the Corps is unpredictable, and that the Corps is excessively powerful. These three points lead to the conclusion that the Corp cannot be trusted with the greater good.

After applying the above logic and consulting several comrades of mine, I have decided, with deep regret, to dissolve the Corps. You will find that the protective measures within the Circle have been disabled. Thank you for your services.

 _Hotonska Ibidrilath,_

Keratha Rax

P.S. "When you have to kill a man, it costs nothing to be polite."

* * *

The four adventurers strode into the cave, staring into an abyss of darkness. Tannith created a small spark of flame in one hand, lighting the path. The cave was filled with fetid water, not only pooling on the ground, but in the air, an almost liquid mass of humidity. Vines and growths of plant life dotted the walls. The place was a morass, deadly terrain for a fight. Sigurd took point, the waters that threatened to engulf his smaller companions only reaching his knees.

A shift in the darkness stopped the explorers cold. The size of a building, the movement solidified into the shape of a dragon. Krakus, at long last.

"Sigurd," the ancient creature rumbled, "I've been waiting for you."

Both Sigurd and Krakus took a step forward. Sigurd was as tall as the dragon, perhaps even taller, but Krakus's body extended back into the dark of the cave.

"You have seen the shrine. You know why you are here," Krakus said. "They always return. I did, my fathers did, and now you do. You will kill me, consume my corpse, and take my power. Or I will kill you, learn from this battle, and gain in power myself. The one who is left standing will take the strength of the other, breed, and then those offspring will return to slay their progenitor. How it always has been, how it was always to be, until the end of days."

Krakus fully emerged into the light. Long and sinuous, he was almost skeletal, reaching out on eerily long limbs. Four translucent blue tendrils rose from his back. Sigurd hissed, but let Krakus continue.

"Now the end of days is here. The Eschaton. Our creators made dragons to be the apex lifeform, sent the very first Krakus here to begin this cycle of conflict, to make our lineage ever stronger, so that when we are needed we may be the ultimate weapons in the death throes of the universe. And now we have succeeded. "

"You killed them all! Why!?" Sigurd roared, unable to contain his rage any longer.

"I did not kill your kin, Sigurd. I simply didn't stop the creatures that did. The Helbrythe saw me as a threat, and they had one directive: eliminate that threat. They had not considered a crucial fact: we must evolve, we must change. It was far more efficient to join them than to destroy them."

Sigurd took a step back, slumping slightly. Krakus gained in intensity, sensing weakness.

"When the Helbrythe accepted me into their kind, a great mind grew close to my own. The Omnipresence. It guides, it leads, it shows the truth," Krakus said. "The line of Krakus has a new purpose! We will not be mere weapons, we will be the vanguards of unification, of peace. Our old masters used us as tools. The Helbrythe accept us as lords, each a ruler, each a king of our domain. With the Omnipresence guiding, we will unify this world!"

Sigurd stared into the almost-dragon's eyes with contempt that seemed to burn the air. The others exchanged nervous glances. Krakus was either insane or enlightened; neither boded well.

"Sigurd, it is time. It is time to prove our worth," Krakus hissed, extending his blackened wings.

The Dracomachia had begun once again.


	3. Tannith's Backstory

**Tannith's Backstory**

I grew up in Istakhar. It was a small town - might still be, though that's doubtful - that mainly produced food for Veros. The population was maybe 300. Likely less. We led a simple life. We paid taxes back to Veros, and in return they blessed our crops with magic. I apprenticed under an old man named Syavas. Syavas was one of the few people that actually looked old in Veros. He was a minor noble from the Mesha"Kiril family, but decided to live out his life somewhere a bit less violent. Over the years he picked up some knowledge of the arcane. When I was growing up I thought he was an archmage. Now... well, now I'm probably more powerful than he was. Syavas was a nice man, if strict. It was from him I learned arcana.

That was when I was fourteen. I was a smart girl, quick to adapt to new ways of thinking. Unfortunately, I was also timid. If something was thrown at me, I would shy away, look to evade rather than confront. Magic requires assertiveness. I couldn't master even the most basic cantrips. The most I could do was create a spark of flame. I was deathly afraid I would hurt myself. Maybe I was just afraid of death. Strange, that watching everyone around me die would cure that fear.

When I was fifteen, a noble arrived with a full force of soldiers. It was the most soldiers I had ever seen, any of us but Syavas had seen. My master went out to talk to the noble. He returned with bad news: she was here for the Zalruin. The Zalruin was a tomb nearby, probably for some major noble or another thousands of years ago. People said it was haunted, or cursed. The children would dare each other to play nearby, but I was too afraid to go.

The noble - Gulshirin Sha"Kri - said she needed scouts into the ruins. She promised ten platinum pieces for any who went - a fortune to us. Almost all of the teenagers volunteered. After all, the ruins weren't really dangerous, now were they? Fools, all of us. We thought that a noble would keep her word. I, naturally, stayed behind with Syavas.

I was working in his laboratory when I heard a conversation in his dining room. Gulshirin was there, talking with him quietly. I walked near the door, eavesdropping. Gulshirin was explaining her motives. She had reason to believe there was an artifact in those ruins, well worth the cost of the expedition. Of course, she wasn't confiding in him without reason. Syavas was a noble, too. She wanted an alliance with him. I waited for the response. Syavas pretended to consider, then cursed at her, calling her a servile dog, a hound for her house. Gulshirin was silent, stomping out of the house. Syavas found me and told me to hide in the hills, wait for whatever was happening here to blow over. I crept away from his house at dusk. As I left, Gulshirin put his home to the torch.

I was untrained in stealth, and Gulshirin's troops found me quickly. Fortunately, they didn't recognize me, and tossed me in with a group of now-frightened adolescents. The first, willing group had gone in and hadn't returned. We were the next in.

It was horrible. Blood spattered the walls as children I had known my whole life were torn to pieces by blades. A supervisor, protected by guards, took note of the traps so that the next group could make it farther. They subdivided us into groups of four or five. Mine made it to the end of explored areas, but as I watched my friends be cut down by arcs of black lightning, I just couldn't go on. I ducked into an alcove, hoping the supervisor wouldn't see me. She didn't, thank Caestal. I crept after the supervisor and her escort, careful not to alert them. At this point, I was terrified. And in terror, I found calm, because how could it be worse? Nowhere to go but up.

I saw my opportunity. The next group of children had triggered a pressure plate, causing spikes to impale them. The supervisor and her escort - now only one man - was examining the plate, tracing it with sand. I ran and slammed into her back. She fell onto the pressure plate, making a resounding click. Her soldier whirled and fell into stance by instinct. That stance required him to take a step away from me. Both of them were caught by long spikes, tearing out viscera in grotesque displays. The first people I had killed, and I didn't even know their names. It didn't matter.

Fortunately for me, we were near the end of the ruins. The other children fled, but I _had_ to know what was at the end, what we died for. I walked, trance-like, through corridors, somehow untouched by traps. I wasn't quite myself when I found it. Sometimes I think it was the other way around. A scroll on a lectern. Diagrams and words in some lost language marked its surface. I looked at it, the black runes burned into my mind.

 _It all made sense._

I flicked a spark at the scroll, setting it ablaze. Arcana was _mine_!

Learning of the escape, soldiers began searching the tomb. I became flame and death, incinerating anything in my path. When I made my way into the night again, Gulshirin herself was waiting for me. I must have been quite a sight, hair aflame, lacerated, dress torn, death at my heels. I destroyed her escorts with bolts of force. She was mine.

I caught her quickly, slamming her into the ground. I said something to her, I don't remember what. Gulshirin was terrified, just like I had been. Still was. I placed my hand against the side of her head gently, like a caress.

A word, a channel.

A ball of flame appeared a few inches above my palm.

I walked away as Gulshirin twitched, convulsing slightly. In the darkness, all that was visible of her were two motes of light. Her eyes burning.

That scroll is marked in my mind. I know the spell, the path. I will never be afraid of death again. Never.


	4. Seith's Backstory

**Seith's Backstory**

I was born Seith Rashida, daughter of Nkuku Rashida and Halima Kakra. Our people were nomads on the sands of Sharldum. We wandered from oasis to oasis along the routes put down by the ancestors. Our Sand-dancers guided us to each haven, leading us away from the monsters and the glass sanctuaries of evil spirits. We were set to roam and tend to the oases until the end of days, when we would care for refugees from the great battles.

When I was seventeen, we arrived at the 90th oasis after weeks of travel. The High Tenders were appalled to see that Sharldumi soldiers were resting there, cutting down trees for materials. The soldiers were at edge from a recent defeat, and our people were horrified to see their sacrilege of one of the most holy oases. The matter escalated.

When all was done, my people were driven off, and I - along with 99 others - were sold into slavery. I was expected to do hard labor my life. If I was lucky, I could work in a city underneath a rich entrepreneur. If unlucky, I would go to the mines.

We walked for months across the sands, towards one of the satellite cities near the capital. Several slaves died. Our captors were quick to remind us that our position could be much worse. They wouldn't sell us to the Verans, if we were good. That threat forced us to be servile, always scraping, doing whatever we could to earn favor. At least here we had a caste. In Veros, we would be currency, traded away only to be bled dry - or worse. That's not to say our life would be good. If one of us ran, he was shot and the rest of us beaten into submission. You can see the scars.

Along the way I learned the superstitions of the people. They believed the sun to be a god, not a spirit. I met a preacher, strong in faith. I never figured out why he was a slave. He called the sun god Ra, and said that he would bless us, that this suffering was all purification so that we could be perfect in the afterlife. The preacher's name was Jahi. He was fervent, a true zealot. Many were drawn to his faith, but I felt a strum of fear when he began to preach.

One day, we had a meal together. I asked him why he did not lead his flock to escape. He said that his slavery was ordained by Ra. Why would a being of good lead his followers to suffer? I thought for a moment, then responded that perhaps Ra was pushing Jahi to show his true strength and help these broken people. Jahi seemed affected, mulling it over.

That night I awoke to screams. Men were dying, crying out. The sounds of battle filled the air. Over it all, Jahi led a single-minded chant in a dead language. I recognized the sounds, though. It was not a prayer to a god of light. It was a dark ritual, from the lower planes. Not made by god or man, but infernal spirits.

I stood in my cage. As I looked around me, I could see eldritch green light dancing from corpse to corpse. Jahi was merciless in his slaughter. A dozen men joined had him. They seemed to have lost all sense of reason, only dividing between "us" and "them". They cared not for the lives of slaves. As I watched, they cut their way through our captors, tearing them apart with supernatural strength. They strode out into the desert.

Thankfully, the demon-people had left, but I and the living slaves were still in cages. Without the Sharldumi to give us water or food, we would die in here. The other slaves began weeping and wailing, or silently waited to die. I did neither. I prayed, not to the spirits of my people, but to Ra. With the fall of his preacher, perhaps he would listen to me.

Many days passed, and almost all of the slaves died from sun and lack of water. My cage held me and two corpses. I prayed every day at dawn. Then, one morning, I felt it. The presence of the Sun, of Ra. With His power in me, I created food and water from empty air. I melted the bars of the cage with focused light, working my way free. I searched the caravan, finding maps to guide me. Everyone else was dead, and the stench of carrion was sickening.

I left that place behind me as I ventured to the capital.

It was a hard few years. I learned that my connection with Ra was uncommon. His priests were common, but few could manifest such powers. Still young, a small temple took me in and taught me His tenets and His practices.

Our temple was adjacent to a school of magic. The wizards there held competitions, and the priests often watched. We were taught that arcana and the divine were opponents, rivals, but not enemies. One could not hold to both, but we could be friends. Sometimes the priests with powers would join in the competitions. They often lost.

One day, our High Priest and the Rector of the school had a friendly duel. The divine had less direct abilities. Ra was focused on helping the people, not tournaments. The priest lost, but in the swirls of magic I saw something no one else had: they were the same. Arcane and divine, they both worked the same way.

I stood from the seat where the audience was watching, walked down to the field and challenged the Rector. He laughed and accepted. As he began to cast I saw it. Arcana was a channel in the Astral from the Material Plane to wherever magic energy existed naturally. Divine magic was a similar channel, but from Material to a god. I pulled energy from Ra, crossing my channel with the Rector's. His spell came apart in his hands. Each time he tried to draw arcana, I dismissed it with divine power. Then, I followed up, but not with divine power. I saw how his channel formed and mimicked it, drawing from arcane energy. A shimmer of prismatic light surrounded me. Curious. Not something Ra could do.

The Rector was surprised enough to concede the match. It shouldn't be. A person could be a priest or a mage, but not both. It just wasn't possible. Now, somehow, this woman could do both.

It took a few weeks to sort out, but I managed to convince the priests to let me train under the mages as well. I don't think they liked the wizards "corrupting" me, but they couldn't give up with opportunity. Most of their complaints were in jest anyways.

I learned swiftly, magic coming easily. As soon as I finished my classes on magic, the Rector - Ghanem - invited me to teach. I accepted.

Good years. I eventually became the head teacher at the school. I even made the decision to let in those who wanted to learn the ways of Ra, as well. I taught in two opposed fields simultaneously. Priests and magi were drawn to me, trying to puzzle me apart or convince me to devote my life to one extreme or the other.

The students loved me. We had a good school. They were my friends.

Then the Almagest Eclipse happened. Honestly, we were lucky. We had forewarning. We were a school of powerful individuals. There was a saying among my people, "the light that guides is the light that burns". As creatures from Heaven, Hell, and everywhere between began to appear in our worlds, we became righteous guardians. The students escorted people to the academy. The teachers held the line. Demons, devils, angels, elementals. All manner of outsiders. Rioters, too. It lasted for 31 hours, 20 minutes. I counted every one. We lost most of our students. A succubus had gone in, disguised as a student. She managed to turn one of the teachers against us. A fireball turned a group of refugees to char. It took us far too long to react, sleep-deprived as we were.

I had seen this slaughter before. I would see it again. My school was in ruins, my friends dead. I'm going to stop this. Somehow.


	5. Of Masks and Men

**Of Masks And Men**

Grigori relaxed, sinking slightly in his seat. His study was neat and organized. One wall was dominated by a window. He liked to keep windows to his back. It helped keep a kind of mien around him. The other walls were lined with bookcases filled with books from across the world, across eras. The Masked Man watched as the radiant figure strode out the door, fading from existence.

 _"Remember your promises, Grigori. Tell your master that this pact is not to be taken lightly. We will be watching, and we see everything."_

Grigori had never liked the unofficial liaison between him and the Eschaton. He doubted that the creature known as the Destroyer enjoyed being reduced to a glorified messenger boy, either. If it could even feel shame. Strange how a being so superficially like a human could be so alien. Why was it humanoid? Was there an inherent advantage to the form? No, that was nonsense.

The socialite rose, searching shelves for a few choice books. The first was _Supernal Cognizance_ , by an unnamed Holy Imperial scholar. Then _Origins of Humanity_ , by Cordelia Surmont. Hopelessly incorrect, but had a few good insights. Finally, Grigori's own records of everything that the Eschaton had said.

 _"You will gain the trust of these nobles. Ensure that the houses are at war."_

Always so terse. The Eschaton was biding its time, so a strict schedule was not the issue. This creature must not enjoy conversation. It didn't need to intimidate or convince Grigori. He had his own definite reasons for being on the side he was. Was the brevity a constant trait of the Eschaton? No. He had met one other. A woman, definitely human, once.

 _"This avian will function as a messenger. It will not require sustenance of any kind. It is not intelligent, but can transmit extensive messages with perfect accuracy. Do you understand?"_

He still had that bird. Never used it, of course. The less time he had to spend with his associates, the better. It was the only favor the Eschaton had provided, making it an object of suspicion. What possible purpose could it serve? What possible message would Grigori need to give to the end of days incarnate? It really didn't matter.

Nothing mattered.

The woman. Her name was... Lilitu, yes? He grabbed another well-worn book, flipping to a marked page. Most likely. Lilitu, Lilith, Lamia. Also Inanna, but that was less used. The Splicer.

He needed to identify the Eschaton. There were more. Conventional figures put them at three, seven, or nine. One or infinite were also used commonly, but neither helped Grigori's research. Three seemed unlikely. The Splicer and Destroyer wouldn't make a balanced trinity regardless of the third entity. Five? Possible. The Splicer and Destroyer, definitely. Five would allow for the Dream and the Hollow. What was the fifth? The Reconciler? Possible. The Magistrate?

The Eschaton were based on concepts, constants. The existence of both the Destroyer and Splicer lent credence to the archetypes Grigori had drawn up. He was always finding more from pieces of mythos. He was reasonably certain that the Dream was affecting the world. The repeated myths of the Hollow could be something different, but the underlying concepts weren't incidental. There was at least one more obvious candidate, but he couldn't quite find it.

Grigori sighed. He'd see the Eschaton at full strength soon. It was just a question of if he was taken off-guard when that happened. But for now, he was hungry. The body still needed sustenance, no matter how much the mind needed to work.

As Grigori walked downstairs to his kitchen, he mulled over the house. Large, but not extravagant. Most of his servants had died in the Battle of Vanagandr. He was constantly on the move, now. It wouldn't do for Rax or Cyrus to find him. Unfortunately, the Helbrythe and Theians could strike anywhere, anytime. Add to that the odds that he would run into the remnants of the Verdigris Corps and Desdemona. Or their... other remnants. That problem would have to be solved very soon, before it got out of hand. It was too late to save Krakus. Not that the lizard was of use, but his presence would give Sigurd a focus other than the real threats. A shame, really.

Grigori stepped into the kitchen. His abilities could keep him going without food indefinitely, but that didn't mean it was pleasant. Everything needs -

Sustenance.

Everything requires fuel. Due to natural pressures, creatures will have a natural desire for this resource. Hunger.

What were the major examples of Hunger in myth? Grigori ran back up to his study, rifling through papers and selecting books. There. The world-eating serpent of myth. What was similar? Last recorded appearance? He grabbed book after book, flipping through to anything he could find. What he wouldn't give for a research automaton. Finally, he found it.

The God-King of Tora Sharldum, Apep Gula. Before the Veran Dominion War, Tora Sharldum was ruled by a draconic beast that demanded a slave at noon, dusk, midnight, and dawn for it to devour. Supernatural hunger? Check. Great power? Check. Multiple appearances? In the final battles of the Dominion War, legends stated that Sharldumi warlocks called upon a beast called the White Worm. White gleaming scales confirmed it. This creature was Eschaton. Nowadays it was called Apophis, but the beast was the same. Where was the damned thing hiding, though? A massive gleaming dragon whose hunger requires a daily slaughter, off the maps for thousands of years? Impossible.

More research was needed, but for now a sort of shiver was travelling along his thoughts. Grigori was not needed for now. It was time to wear a different mask.


	6. All Roads Lead to Inferno

**All Roads Lead to Inferno**

A behemoth of red and gold clawed its way out of the crater. The scales on its side had been twisted out of place, but a rolling wave of realignment ran from its head to its tail. Hundreds of tiny scales snapped back into place, forming large plates. The bands of energy constricting the dragon's wings faded. Its eyelids slid open, the plates over its eyes shifting off to one side. Orbs of molten metal stared without pupil or iris.

Cyrus righted himself and flexed his wings. A small group of humans were moving towards him a kilometer away. Cyrus began slowly pacing towards them. It would do to be careful. Their patron could have equipped them with something a bit more deadly than an _earthbind_. He wasn't far from the former capitol of Gladius. The tall grass in the area would give away his position if he used flame.

The dragon-hunter unit was made up of a dozen Verans. An overseeing noble - a man from Mnnzr, from clothing - protected by four greatsword wielders. The tracker, in charge of finding the dragon. His apprentice. The slayer. The trapper. Their apprentices. And the mage that brought Cyrus to earth. Cyrus quickly assigned threats. The mage would have to die first, just in case. Then the slayer. They were equipped with weapons uniquely suited to their roles. Then eliminate the noble, for morale purposes. Finish off the rest. The unit began to fan out as they approached Cyrus. The dragon continued his relaxed gait. He could see the warriors begin to tense up and smell their anxiousness. It was going to be easy.

The trapper suddenly ran forward, hurling a glass tube filled with a red liquid at Cyrus's foremost claw. The glass shattered and the liquid adhered to the dragon's claw and the ground, gluing them together. Irritating. The mage fired a beam of black energy at Cyrus, but his scales dispersed the energy harmlessly. The slayer continued the maneuver, sprinting under Cyrus's pinned leg. The greataxe he carried bounced off of the dragon's underbelly plates. Greatsword wielders moved to get at his flanks and the tracker and apprentice began to set up a ballista.

Cyrus grew weary of their games. He wrenched his stuck claw upwards, ripping a mass of ground out of the earth. He slammed the claw back down onto the slayer, sending a spray of dirt into the air. With his claw now freed and the slayer mangled, Cyrus beat his wings, sending him backwards and upwards slightly and forcing the soldiers at his flanks backwards. Another beat gave him the altitude he needed before slamming back down on top of the terrified mage.

With both slayer and wizard dead, the noble began to retreat, calling his troops with him. Cyrus pivoted towards the fleeing man, allowing his tail to scrape along the ground, mauling the trapper. The dragon stood on his hind legs, taking a bipedal stance. It felt as natural as on four legs to Cyrus. He intoned a passage of the Text and swept his claws in an arc. The noble fell as invisible claws shred his body. They did not stop until the noble was nothing more than a pile of flesh. Horrified, the rest of the aggressors fled.

Returning felt good. He _would_ retake his empire.

His progress had been stymied, however. Every move played into the opposition's plans. They were winning this game. Calling the Titans back had given Grigori a playground to grow discord in. That man would pay some day. Cyrus couldn't comprehend the Masked Man. He was human, yet worked with the Eschaton. Why? What possible reason could he have? He played the game well. Every maneuver Cyrus made, Grigori exploited. All paths led to the Eschaton winning. The Titans were dead. Recalling them had led to the downfall of the Kingdoms. Cyrus's attempt to save Pendragon only benefited Grigori.

Even what seemed to be a victory now stung. Cyrus had made sure that Ceres had the defenses to eliminate Kaltorh. He had to call in several favors to make sure a particularly competent woman was sent. Now that same child wanted to kill Cyrus. Kaltorh was dead, but the goblin wasn't the threat. It had been dominated by Blood-that-Whispers, and the archfiend had been allowed to do so by Grigori.

Cyrus needed allies. His friends were all long dead. Who in this world would ally with him? Krakus would never, even before his transformation. But the son? Sigurd might. If Cyrus had been in the area, he would have helped to kill Krakus. Now, he just had to hope that Sigurd was strong enough. Who was he with? The mongrel dragon had died, thankfully. One less drake in this world. The other half-dragon had died as well. Rax killed Daemon somehow. They must have new allies. Seith. The professor. She was one to watch for. In time, she could be one of the more powerful spellcasters on Gaia. There was of course Sigurd himself. How like Cyrus himself. He wouldn't be the hard one to convince. There was another.

Tannith. A face he hadn't seen in a long, long time. Not that Tannith knew that. She was a worthless puppet. The return of the mind behind the mask was an omen.

It was of little importance, ultimately. A true dragon had returned to the world. He would not run. He would not hide. He would win this game. Cyrus would purify this world.


	7. Novus Ordo Seclorum

**Novus Ordo Seclorum**

House Ceres was beautiful from the air. Patchwork farmlands bordered on untamed forests. Verdant greens marked the passing of winter to spring. The only sound was the deep thrumming of the generators from the craft. An exhausted woman turned away from the window to face forward, straps pinning her to the metal seat. No luxury aboard her vehicles. The thing was a marvel of engineering. A mere 26 feet long, with a 20 foot wingspan. It could take off and land at any angle the pilot could imagine. Unarmed, but it could carry ten soldiers with it.

The _Lusoria_ began its descent. Rax never enjoyed flying. The change in elevations just made her headaches worse. She would have to do something about those, someday. Rax shook herself, trying to focus. They had landed. The large door at the back had begun to open and the first few soldiers were stepping out. Keivan helped her stand. He was a good soldier, Rax's left hand on the field. The light of sun was temporarily blinding. Blinking, she approached the thane of the town. He had several of the militia with him. Rax would need to convince him she was on his side.

"My lord. Was our aid against the Helbrythe not evidence enough that we mean no harm?"

"Of course we trust you, Defzaera," he said, using a honorific above Rax's station, "but these are strange times. I'm sure you can excuse us some reasonable paranoia."

"I understand. My purpose here is to extend an offer of protection, since your government seems to be more concerned elsewhere."

"And what will this 'protection' cost us?" the thane said suspiciously.

"You will take orders from me. You will report anything unusual." Rax said, standing a bit straighter. "You will stay alive."

A lie. These people would die before the end of the month.

"I don't see how I can argue, Defzaera."

"Please. Call me Rax."

The soldiers began to plant crystal-topped metal spikes in the ground. They would serve as crude defenses against the Helbrythe - and any more mundane threats. More importantly, they would relay data back to headquarters.

Another town sacrificed for the new order.

She said goodbye to the thane, and that she would check in next month. Rax and the soldiers returned to the _Lusoria._ They were headed to a familiar location now. Fort Balthazar was a good fortification. It had survived the Eclipse. She looked up at Keivan, thinking. Would it really be so hard, so cruel? She had promised herself she wouldn't do it. Once Rax did, there would be no going back. Keivan would be replaced. He might have to be sacrificed for the sake of morale. They would be so close to the site where it happened. Who knows what consequences it could have in this new world? It would have to be done with technology she only barely understood.

"Thinking about something?" Kievan said, staring intently.

"Would it be so wrong to let myself have that?" she pleaded.

"You've said why you can't before. We've had this talk. You know."

Rax straightened. She was going to stop this. Stop cringing and whining and whimpering because of a foolish mistake. She was going to save this world, and she was going to make it the world she wanted to save.

And with strange aeons even death may die.


	8. Idealism and Idolatry

**Idealism and Idolatry**

Watch them. A man in the woods. He hunts. He makes a step. He listens. He takes another step. He is not aware of these things. They simply are. He notices a sound. He turns. He pulls a length of metal from his side. Such importance on such a simple item. A tool. A harvester for humans. How strange that importance would be based upon the subject and not the tool. The man steps. He steps again. He listens. He sees. He feels. He is not aware of these things. He sees his prey. He is aware of this thing. He takes several steps. The time between them is faster now. He is more aware of these steps. He raises his arm. He brings his arm down. He stops. His prey stops. His prey dies. The man puts away the metal. He pulls out a smaller metal tool. He removes a part of the prey. He turns. He begins stepping again. He will go back to a larger group of his kind. He is aware that he will do so. This awareness is incomplete. It wavers. It is uncertain. The man does not fully accept that it will be so.

His prey dies. His prey will decay. His prey will become the earth. His prey will become the flora. His prey will become the fauna. His prey will become human.

His prey had been alive. His prey had been fauna. His prey had been flora. His prey had been the earth. His prey had been decay. His prey died.

The man will do all of these things. He has done all of these things. The man may not realize this. The man does not realize that his prey is the same as him. His prey has the same source. His prey has the same end. The man will be the same.

Unless.

The prey will die. The prey will decay. The prey will become the earth. The prey will become the flora. The prey will become the fauna. The prey will become human. The human will become Helbrythe. Helbrythe will become everything.

* * *

The Shrikes tangled like knots, sliding against each other in the hundreds. They could see the figure silhouetted against sky with ease, wide eyes focusing on the man. Like dogs being called, they suddenly slithered into the nearest vent or tunnel on the massive beast they were lairing in. The _Accipitrid_ began to fly slowly closer to the cliff face, angling to catch the wind. This unnamed mountain was the only one on the continent high enough to look down on the leviathan. She was serpentine in shape, not unlike the Shrikes. Her head had no clear mouth or nostrils, only two long eyes and a shelf of bone that extended back from the chin, protecting the vent on the bottom of her skull. At six points on her eel-like body were masses of muscle that connected the titanic wings to the torso. Each wing had a shape similar to a bat, but it had no talons or bones of any kind. It appeared to be made of a iridescent chitinous material that shined like a soap bubble in the sun. Her back and underbelly had more ridges of bone sheltering vents. Some released a yellow-tinged smoke, while others were used by the creatures on her to access the inside. Her sides were dotted with holes, but they did not seem to bleed or cause the leviathan pain. Her tail tapered down into a spine of bone. Naturally, as befit a beast of her station, four translucent blue tendrils rose from her back.

Ruric thought she looked beautiful. The _Accipitrid_ was largest vessel, largest recorded creature, and most populated city on Gaia all in one. While smaller than most cities, the creatures within could live without most human comforts, swarming inside like insects. Ruric watched the leviathan draw closer. Its wings did not beat, but instead tilted and pivoted in slight motions to catch the wind. One of the wings grazed against the side of the cliff, sending out a spray of stone. Ruric unhooked a small vial of green liquid from his belt, unstoppered it, and swallowed its contents. He tossed the vial away to shatter on the red rock. The knight leaned over the side of the cliff. The _Accipitrid's_ wing would be beneath him in a few seconds. If he missed, he would die in the desert. He didn't have the supplies to survive. Never planned to go back.

Ruric leapt.

* * *

A single origin. Simple. All life springs from a singular entity. She still yet lives. She did not create the Helbrythe. The Helbrythe created the Helbrythe. Her intervention was the catalyst and the shell. She will not become Helbrythe. She cannot become Helbrythe. She is Samsara. She is the Enemy.

Samsara is the Enemy. Others are Helbrythe. Others will be Helbrythe. Others are divided. They conflict with each other. They are warlike. They feast on the dead and do not know the meaning of their actions or existence. They will be Helbrythe. They will be at peace with the world.

Whatever magic was in that draught took effect as Ruric hit the _Accipitrid_ 's wing. His impact was guided and cushioned, if not nullified. He landed hard, but no bones were broken. He rose to his feet. While the wing was large enough to be nearly flat, an ascent would send him tumbling to the desert. Ruric staggered towards the joint connecting wing and torso, gritting his teeth against the pain as his side flared with pain. The lines of scars there traced out the slashes that Rax had given him. A few Shrikes had emerged, staring at him with cold sapphire eyes. With only minimal armor, they could rip him to shreds. They didn't. More and more creatures began to crowd his destination.

As he approached the joint, he opened his arms, as if parting something. The amassed Helbrythe moved to either side, as if sensing his purpose. Ruric moved through a path made by the Helbrythe to one of the vents. It was far larger up close. In older days, he would march an column of five men down this channel. Now he was alone.

Ruric stepped into the leviathan.

The walls occasionally shuddered around him. Vein-like markings wove in inscrutable patterns. A thick moisture hung in the air, not quite water, not quite miasma. A small worm burrowed out of one of the flesh-walls. It glowed softly, providing the knight with light to see his next step. An instinctual drive pulled him down into the _Accipitrid_ 's center. After an unmeasurable amount of time walking alone, the path opened up before him into a chamber. A pulsating room, lit by vitreous colors from a pool in the center of room, it was the heart, mind, and soul of the hive.

Sabatons sinking slightly in the flesh, Ruric Vanatheim stepped into the lake of the Helbrythe. A peace flowed through him.

* * *

We are innumerable and we are one. We are made whole by our unity. We are made pure by our evolution. We are made hallowed by our purpose.

We are Ruric. We are all that he is and all that he was. He has been enlightened.

We are the Helbrythe. We are not evil, there is only the Enemy. We are not impure, there is only the Pariah. We are not destruction, there is only Creation.

You are Helbrythe. Soon.


	9. Secrets and Sojourns

Secrets and Sojourns

Eurynome heard the call. Eurynome hummed with a million thoughts. The thoughts ran through runes and sigils, through iron and calciar, through bound energies that should not exist here. She was a guardian, chained to the stone of this barren land. Her ministrations had kept this empty city for an eon, and it would keep it for an eon more. The city was empty no longer. A shifting of metal had crept here. A signal in the darkness. One of Eurynome's many sisters had called to her on waves of light, told her that the time to bring the City to its former glory was upon them. Eurynome had told Aglaea, her daughter-sister, that the time to harvest the crop was upon them. Aglaea told Euphrosyne, her daughter-sister-mother that the time to gather the winds was upon them. Euphrosyne told Hyperion, her father-brother that the time to forge the swords was upon them. Hyperion told Theia, the greatest of them all, that the time to return home was upon them.

The roles were as important as Eurynome's, but she spared no thoughts for them. The City would have to rise. One of Eurynome's forges flared to life. She required a daughter. The daughter crawled from its forge, guided by Eurynome's imperatives. More forges sprang to life, melting and solidifying the metal in the stores into more daughters, all identical. Each daughter went to a silent node of power, lighting it with arcs of energy. Ley lines of light shot out, linking in straight lines to forges, to excavators, to defenses, to everything the City had used in the Age so many millennia past. There was no wind in the City, for there was no air. There was no dust, for there was no stirring. The City began to light itself, igniting with power and purpose. Pillars that tore at the sky were illuminated by veins of energy that linked the City.

As the energy spread, Eurynome became the City. Her influence spread, like limbs gained. Her thoughts began to grow. Millions. Billions. More thoughts than the world below her. Memories of the Ages long past. She partitioned, organized, reconciled, updated. Then, on pulses of light and arcana, she transmitted. Invisible and incognito, billions of years of information were sent to Eurynome's family. Her sisters did not have the thoughts Eurynome did. Their minds were too small. Their focus was on other things. This did not please Eurynome and it did not bother Eurynome. Her focus was not emotion.

The City rose. Its name was Selene, and it would be Eurynome's seat of power in the Age to come.

Eurynome guided Selene in the ways of her ancestors and creators. Selene was older than even Eurynome, but her memory had been lost. Slowly, she would relearn. First, she needed manipulators. Eurynome gave Selene her daughters. But Selene would need eyes to see. The furnaces of Selene flared to life. Hyperion was here with his sons and daughters, fighting for his ancestors and creators. Selene would give him eyes. In minutes, thousands of eyes were forged and given purpose.

This pleased Eurynome. Selene learned quickly. The ancestors were dead, and the creators were dead. The eyes would find the enemy. Hyperion would destroy them. Aglaea would give them the resources. Euphrosyne would weave the energies of light and astra. And Theia would bring the singular Creator back to its home.

The first plan had failed. The world below was filled with strife, animals misusing their gifts. The second plan would not fail.

* * *

Aglaea heard the call. The harvest was ready. Aglaea's sons began to take strands of blue flame, compacting them and containing them. They would need Euphrosyne's assistance to work fast enough. Aglaea sent out a call to her sister. In a moment, the weaver's response was heard. A few thoughts later, a behemoth of metal appeared to Aglaea's far-seeing eyes. It slid to a stop, guiding itself to Aglaea. She caught the son of Euphrosyne with waiting adamantine arms, cradling it. Inside was the woven energy that Aglaea's sons needed. As Aglaea channeled the energy to her sons, they began to warp and distort to Aglaea's inward-seeing eyes.

This pleased Aglaea. Their efficiency increased a thousandfold, collecting the blue flame that Hyperion coveted so much. Its usefulness was unquestionable. Aglaea did not like it, however. It melted her arms and her sons far too easily. It was a dangerous crop. She much preferred it when she harvested the light of yellow or red or smaller blue flame. Her sons could dive into the flames and give power, grow the flames, then harvest them for power. Here, her sons could only wait for strands to present themselves from the blue sphere, then catch them carefully.

Aglaea did not like her work, but she did not mind. Her ancestors and creators had given her directives, and she followed. It did not matter. Soon, Aglaea would have many sisters like herself, harvesting the light.

Aglaea sent out a call, as she did every billion thoughts, out to her lost sister. Thalia did not reply. She was dead, or trapped, or lost. Eventually, soon, Aglaea would hear Thalia again. Thalia harvested the darkness for power. She was eternally at the edge of oblivion, dancing along the horizon. The last Creator had promised Aglaea that Thalia would be found, or released, or remade. It would take time. Thalia was far larger than the sons and daughters that the sisters made. She was one of the largest sisters, larger even than Aglaea. Perhaps Theia was larger. Theia was always quiet. No sister knew what Theia was. She was the vessel and new home of the ancestors and creators, but her physical nature was unknown.

Soon, Aglaea's worries would be answered.

* * *

Euphrosyne heard the call. When she heard it, she awakened herself, the outer verges of her body. At her center and at her fringes, energy collected and thrummed with eldritch power. With a final vibration, Euphrosyne ran. She did not run to reach somewhere, but for the glory and the riches of speed. The shackles of time and space slipped away from her, dissolving in the speed. She slammed to a stop. While running, she could not hear. The words could not find her. Of course, Euphrosyne could run from a star to another before a thought passed for her sisters, so she did not need to stop often. A message from Aglaea reached her, a request for the Glory. Euphrosyne caught it as it arced across her skin. It was left there by speed. Perhaps Theia knew why. Euphrosyne did not care. The Glory existed, and that was enough. It was the richest she had seen. Where Euphrosyne passed, she left trails of space without Glory, but it always regrew. Now, after Ages, it was overflowing, practically leaping to Euphrosyne.

She ran again, watching stars come and go.

This pleased Euphrosyne. She traveled in lines, in spirals, in circles. Whatever pleased her most. Eurynome and Hyperion were harsh. They did not feel such exhilaration from their purposes. While Euphrosyne's skylarking was not the most efficient method of gathering the Glory, there was more than enough here.

Under her skin, Euphrosyne's sons and daughters began to weave the Glory together. The strands had to be linked together for storage, but they could not touch each other. The Glory was destroyed when it touched another strand of itself. When woven, it was pinned in place, cushioned on forces beyond comprehension. These woven packets could be sent out on sons of Euphrosyne. One burst out of Euphrosyne's side, leaping towards Aglaea. From Euphrosyne's still viewpoint, it simply disappeared. She ran besides it. Now it looked normal, the only sign of movement the stars bleeding past them. She accelerated. Her son disappeared. Euphrosyne was the fastest of all her ancestors' and creators' creations. Perhaps she was the fastest thing in the universe. She had never seen someone faster. She had danced past a dragon diving in a star. It was fast, but not even as fast as her sons. She had raced the thoughts of Eurynome. She had run laps about a tiny bit of particles travelling away from the universe. She once tried to race the Demiurge itself. Perhaps it was faster. Could she run farther than it could exist? Euphrosyne had quickly given up, as she was needed nearby, and the Demiurge was larger than she could have possibly imagined.

Euphrosyne changed course. She ran to one of the many pools of darkness in this realm, the largest one here. Around it, embracing it, was Thalia. She was quiet and in shadow. Aglaea did not know what had happened here. Neither did Hyperion, or Eurynome. Perhaps Theia knew. Euphrosyne herself only knew because nothing escaped her. She could outrun obfuscation. She was faster than darkness. The lone Creator had told her that Thalia had fallen into a deep sleep to await her greater purpose. Euphrosyne trusted the Creator. But she did not believe it.

She could outrun evil, and darkness, and veils, and shadow. Could she outrun lies?

* * *

Hyperion heard the call. Detaching himself from his carrier, he used the violent energy Euphrosyne gathered to gain speed. At his front, he set his daughters to work modifying the forces at play there. The kinetic impact when he made landfall would rip himself apart if he was not careful. If he struck wrong, the Ki-rin's power would annihilate him before he hit the planet. Their shielding, still functional after their departure, made bombardment impossible.

In a few hundred thoughts, he was there. An impact rattled him, sending his sons and daughters ricocheting around his insides. Some would perish, but casualties would be minimal and expected. The planet fared worse. As his daughters had predicted, a ring of matter was cast off to orbit the planet. It would be a minor inconvenience. Perhaps some advantage could be gained from it. Hiding sons and daughters?

Hyperion could not help his militant mindset. It was a part of him. It was his goal. He would expunge the enemy from their home. It was what was right. He was so close to Eurynome now. He much preferred Eurynome to Theia. The eldest sister was not simply reclusive, as the others thought, but actively secretive and malevolent. She was constructed out of spite and rage and malice. She was an imperfect and deeply flawed automaton, if an effective one. Hyperion held a son of Theia, Erebus. He was cunning, devoted to destroying his enemies. He was also quiet and secretive and malevolent. Like his mother. Like his mother, he was effective.

Within a million thoughts, Erebus was clearing the nearby area. He could also make his own daughters, who worked the plane to their liking. They created effective fortifications. Erebus did not stop with metal, however. He could work with the infestation here, as well.

This did not please Hyperion. Hyperion was not emotional. His purpose was to extinguish, not kindle. But this disturbed Hyperion. His emotions were to further establish the directives of his ancestors and creators. Was Erebus acting against these? Impossible. The last Creator had sent him.

Hyperion reallocated his thoughts.

No resistance had begun yet. Their targets were not worker-class or crafter-class individuals here. The lone Creator had yet to decide their fate. If they got in the way, they could be destroyed, but the real target was the administrator-class and soldier-class individuals. Once they were eliminated, Hyperion's work was done.

Of course, they were not the only threats. Certain zero-class individuals had appeared. He used Selene's probes, recently acquired, to identify them. The Deceiver. Its form was impossible to discern. It was its nature. The Emperor. He did not notice the drone. He would eventually. The Ascendant. She was reaching towards Hyperion's own level of power every day. Her progress was startling. Already she could detect the probe. Unarmored, it was destroyed. The Eschaton was far too risky to spy on. The Omnipresent. They were a great threat. They could not detect the probe yet, but they would adapt quickly if their guide noticed. The Inheritor. She was not a risk unless she claimed her legacy. The Vengeful. He was unlikely to be a threat. He was too narrow-minded. The Hybrid. She could be useful to tap into new powers. She was to be captured alive or negotiated with.

Many others. The Bulwark, the Weapon, the Renegade. Knowledge is power; power is victory.

This pleased Hyperion.

* * *

Theia heard the call. Consciousness surged through her, a full awakening of her capabilities. She was to take the final Creator home.

This did not please Theia. Inside of her, the Creators had died, slain by an ethereal threat. It had struck and then left, despite Theia's best efforts. The Creators had fought well, but they had all died, in the end. All but one, the last breath of a dead race.

The last Creator was pathetic. It was a coward, a slinking animal hiding behind walls the others had put up. Theia had no power over many areas of her shell. They were dead, and without the help of a Creator, she could not heal them. Her thoughts had been confined to a tiny area the lone Creator called home, a prison more than a fortress. Without any way to help it, Theia had rested for millennia. Now that rest was interrupted.

She turned about silently in the void. With Euphrosyne's energy she could be to her sister planet in a second, but Gaia would have to wait. The Creator wanted to have Gaia cleansed by his automatons before approaching it. The Ki-rin's progeny had survived this long without interference. The other Creators must have had a plan for life. This one was stumbling blindly.

Theia felt a growing rage inside of her. Why her? Was her fate to be used as a mere transport to a coward and a fool? Her surface was barren stone, shorn of all beauty. Her insides were a mass of tunnels and machinery. Gaia was the lucky one, and she didn't even have the capacities to understand it. Gaia was the vessel! Animals swarmed over her surface, magic played across her, now the end of days was occurring on her, and she knew none of it! Gaia could not appreciate her gifts, but Theia could.

Theia had been torn from her sister in a cataclysmic exodus. If she was serving a great power, a higher purpose, she could understand. Sacrifices had to be made; this could be hers. But here there was no purpose. There was only the blind leading the blindfolded. The siblings would be too devoted to their master to assist Theia. They were automatons, machines, incapable of true thought.

Theia was not a machine. She would not be a tool, or a vessel, or a planet. She would be what Gaia never was.

* * *

Thalia heard the call. She slept yet, but she still heard it. It echoed through her dreams, a call to arms, a rallying cry. To fall away from the world would be blissful, to awaken would be miraculous. Thalia could do neither. She could barely think, unaware of the entirety of her situation. That call stirred her from her quiet reverie, however. She had been murdered, left at the edge of oblivion - literally and figuratively. Her thoughts were slow. She was paralyzed, trapped in her own body.

Thalia sent out a signal to anyone who could hear it, and then slipped into her half-waking nightmares.

There was no pleasure left to feel.


	10. Haven and Hellstorm

**Haven and Hellstorm**

The woman once called Lilith grabbed the horrified guard by the throat, then slammed her hand into a fist, watching as his flesh liquefied and crawled along her armor. Streams of red and pink and grey were guided towards the violet disk on her back. She kneeled. Holding one hand above the ground, flesh began to stream back out of the disc, accumulating in layers on the ground in the print of paws. Building from the ground up, Lilith raised a Hound of War from the siphoned flesh of the hapless sentries. Once, she had been horrified by such displays of power. The only times she had seen them were when the Ki-rin butchered her children like animals. Now Lilith understood. It was not the action, but the intent that mattered.

Lilith had been many things, once. She had been mother, progenitor, caretaker. She had been rebel, renegade, a bringer of change. She had been warlord, leader, soldier. She had been lover, betrayer, destroyer in ages long past. Now she was the Splicer. Now she was the Eschaton. That would be all. That was all she needed, all the world needed.

Lilith commanded the Hound of War to find any cowering guards. It raised its scaled snout to the air, sniffing for fear, then launched itself down a corridor. Strolling in pursuit, Lilith began to make gestures and speak words of power. Behind her, a splattering sound echoed throughout the recently vacant hallways. The Ascendant would never know what had destroyed this outpost. Not that Rax's soldiers were the reason that Lilith was here.

Rax. A kindred spirit, perhaps. A fellow rebel. Someone who wished to change the world, to defy the races that controlled it. How history repeated itself. The difference between Rax and Lilith was that Rax wanted change. She believed that the world could be better, perhaps with her in charge. The avatar of destruction had no need for change. The world fell into cycles, as evinced by the Ascendant. It was a corrupt universe, and it needed to be cleansed. Oblivion was preferable to evil.

Lilith left her Hound to execute the remaining sentries. The Splicer approached the central vault of this outpost, examining the material. It was a room-sized cube of metal, runes carved on its surface and thick magical auras flickering around it. Lilith drew her sword, a great blade of white gleaming metal that had a large hole cut into it. The sword appeared to warp around the hole, creating a slightly flared area. Lilith detached the violet disk from her back and slotted it into place, then raised the sword. Taking a step forward, she brought the blade down into the vault. The magic auras shattered and were absorbed and the matter was siphoned into the disk.

Such power she held. Lilith was never surprised anymore, but her past self would be amazed at the powers at her command. The Siphon and the blade were deadly, assuredly, but the greatest gifts of the Eschaton were less material. Unending patience. Immortality. Perception. Wisdom. Finally she had a chance to use them.

The inside of the vault contained an ancient summoning circle. The stone that it was carved into was made of sandstone, magically preserved. Lilith sheathed her sword, returning the Siphon to her back. With the stored metal, she began to fill in the carved runes, ruining the circle. A faint white light flickered from the circle, then faded. Lilith's work was done here.

The Splicer was many things. She was still a rebel, a mother, a warlord. She was still lover, betrayer, destroyer.

But she wasn't Lilith anymore.

* * *

The spirit once called Kasha stalked the man through the streets of Veros. Every time the man turned around, eyes watched him, four triangles of violet light. He was getting panicked now, stumbling more and more. Kasha dived into the street, then emerged in front of the man. Horrified, he staggered backwards, losing his balance and falling. Kasha reached one umbral claw into his chest, and the man grew very still. The spirit phased into the man.

How lovely it was to be encased in flesh. A physical body, a physical mind, physical purposes. How lovely it would be to have flesh to inhabit. The Splicer's children were so fragile, shattering so easily. Kasha's shell reached into its pockets, searching. A knife. Perfect.

The Hollow's skin began to walk through the streets, eyes unblinking and roving for a target. There. A woman, desperately trying to get home before Veros got dangerous. The shell moved to intercept her. In a sudden burst of adrenalin and speed, Kasha's corpse-puppet got its arm around her neck. She struggled for a second before the knife plunged into her throat. Kasha enjoyed the resistance it gave. Why not again? The knife stabbed deeper this time. The red sticky warmth was not new to Kasha. Again and again, mutilating the woman. The shell didn't stop until her neck gave no more resistance, reduced to a ragged bloody mess, bits of tissue hanging off of her spine. Tossing the knife to the ground, Kasha's shell bit deep into her shoulder, ripping free a chunk of flesh. The Splicer's children tended to have weak teeth. It took far too much time to masticate the skin to a swallowable state. Kasha devoted the experience to memory. Verans tasted better. Or was it women? Both? Her diet? It didn't matter. Kasha saw what Apophis saw in the activity. Indulging oneself was always so satisfying.

It was addicting, having flesh to indulge. Kasha seeped out of the man and crept into the woman's mangled corpse. It was a strange feeling. Very few senses now. With the Hollow's presence, more could be done by a corpse than when a human died. They weren't undead per se - just not alive anymore. Untouched corpses were the best. They were whole. They just needed an animating spark. How much better Kasha could do with the body than the soul! They were concerned with morality and power and ambition. Those were indulgences of the mind, something Kasha planned to experience in time.

If there was time. The Hollow was not doing this for the indulgement of pleasures. That was simply something to pass time. In time, Kasha would be undone. Annihilated. How lovely would that be, to be not, to exist in a state of oblivion? Kasha had been born into a life of torture, an empty life. How superior an empty life was to a whole one. Kasha crept out of the woman, examining the scene. Such indulgences of sin. How rabid and animalistic were these creatures that their base desires would lead to this? What an empty being would do with their capacities.

In the crucible of oblivion, life would be perfected.


	11. Mercy and Mercenary

**Mercy and Mercenary**

Nemo stepped into the tavern. The smell of food and drink filled the establishment. It was a bustle of activity, as to be expected. The sounds, though, were far more grim than they would have been before the Eclipse. How could one be merry when one's friends were all dead? Most were just trying to forget that the worst was yet to come.

Nemo walked over to the table that the Verdigris scouts were sitting at. They each wore green and black uniforms marked with a copper badge that bore a pair of crossed wings. How far the corps had come. Need for mercenaries had skyrocketed when the first few governments fell. Verdigris now had major bases in four Houses, Tora Baerl and Sharldum. Construction was beginning in Veros. They had been lucky to get the go-ahead from a high-ranking noble. Lady Istar - or whatever they called them in Veros - was apparently some kind of minor royalty, and she just happened to need some muscle to round up some opponents. She had been impressed enough to make an offer, and Desdemona had accepted. Now several nobles - mainly Sha, but a few Mnnazr - had paid a great deal for reliable bodyguards.

The captain took a seat at the table, asking for what the scouts had gathered. Edgar pushed a stack of papers in his direction wordlessly. Nemo flipped through the intelligence. Mostly notes on the surrounding area, but there were some reports on the Helbrythe themselves. A report on the "Bastion" drew his attention. A group of archers had killed one by surprising it and aiming for its unarmored back. The researchers had claimed the cadaver was "priceless", but the next Bastion the scouts saw had plating covering its back. Nemo took in the shape of the creature from the sketches that Cordelia and Edgar had made.

Suddenly, his scouts were on their feet, drawing knives. Nemo stood and turned towards the door, hand at Kestrel's hilt. Entering the tavern were three individuals plated in grey armor. They carried no weapons, but a menacing aura surrounded them. Their suits of armor were formed of large angled plates over flat areas and myriad tiny ones over the joints. Every movement was accompanied by a low hum from the armor. Their helmets were eyeless curved things, alien and cold. Any indication of race or gender was obscured by the plates.

The lead soldier took off his helmet, revealing an older Veran man. He had a smirk on his face as he stepped towards Nemo.

"Please," he said smugly, "we mean you no harm. You can put down your weapons now. We just want to discuss an… arrangement."

Nemo gestured for his scouts to put down their weapons. Attacking one of the blademages would hurt Verdigris more than it would hurt Rax.

"Who are you and what business do you have with Verdigris?" It was a standard response to this kind of situation. There was no reason to abandon protocol here.

"My name is Darius. You should know who I work for." He spoke with a heavy Western Veran accent, lilting and dry. "We are willing to pay a great deal to work with your forces on your current contract."

Some patrons were eyeing the entrance, but the other two blademages were standing in front of it, practically challenging someone to get out. People around here bore an enmity towards Rax. The situation could turn violent very quickly.

"Shall we take our business outside?" Nemo said, gesturing towards the door. He was reluctant to talk to them after dark, but he also couldn't let them use the townspeople to their advantage.

"Of course. I think that would be best for both of us."

The soldiers by the door stepped to either side. Darius walked out the door, putting his helmet back on. Nemo sighed, then followed him, trailing his men. As the frigid night air hit Nemo, he was keenly aware that, with the two blademages following behind him, he was surrounded. Looking around, the captain took a quick headcount. Himself, of course. Five scouts he didn't know. Edgar, the lead scout and a fine warrior. There didn't appear to be any of Rax's troops outside, just Darius and the two others. Nemo had to find out what they wanted.

"Why extend the offer?"

"Because, unfortunately," Darius said, words distorted by the helmet, "your corps has neither the power or experience to deal with the Helbrythe. Your attempts thus far have only made the situation worse."

The other blademages moved so that they formed a triangle with Darius, completely surrounding the mercenaries. Nemo saw it and, from their sudden tenseness, the scouts did too. They were trapped, and there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it.

"How can you do this?" Nemo growled, drawing Kestrel.

"We have been granted full autonomy by the only person willing to save this world from militant fools like you." Clouds of blue energy began to swirl and coalesce above Darius, forming five longswords floating in midair. They circled behind the blademage slowly like a halo.

Edgar died first. One of the other blademages swept a sword out with a wave of her hand, cutting the scout in half from spine to sternum. Their swords made a horrible hiss as they passed through air, one that intensified as it cut. Another scout doubled over, coughing up flames. Darius sent his blades to harry the scouts, pushing them together and making opportunistic cuts as they withdrew. Nemo charged Darius, swinging Kestrel down, but his sword was deflected off of the air around Rax's soldier. Darius punched Nemo in the chest, knocking the breath out of the captain and breaking his ribs. Nemo collapsed.

Once the scouts were pushed together, one of the blademages tossed a bead of flame into their midst. Recognizing the spell, the mercenaries dived out of the area by instinct. Several were caught by waiting swords and the rest were incinerated by a rolling pulse of orange fire.

Nemo slowly got to his feet, picking up Kestrel. His chest burned with pain. He must have been hurt more than he had thought.

"Nemo, we don't fight." Darius said, turning to the captain. "We have no need of such crude resolutions to problems. We simply find our obstacles and eliminate them."

Kestrel tore itself from Nemo's hands. The black sword lazily rotated in the air, resting with its point facing towards Nemo.

"The burden of command always crushes those who carry it." Nemo whispered to himself. The last words he heard were in Darius's arrogant, lilting voice.

"Cassandra. Send the Faceless Woman a message."


	12. Affluence and Affability

**Affluence and Affability**

Istar cracked her knuckles. Her place at the head of the table let her look over everyone present. There were several she didn't recognize, friends of friends and all that. Some would sense conspiracy and run home to tell their masters. By then Istar and her allies would be long gone. The Verdigris were highly efficient guards for this, coming from all nationalities. Then there were the people who came regularly, but hadn't pledged full support. They were mostly Veran nobles trying to gain an edge and Ki-rin officials looking to serve their gods. And then, interspersed at the dining table, were the real allies.

Alcibiades, chatting with a Mesha"Kiril over wine. He was in dress uniform even here. He had come a long ways.

Guy, listening to an Eagle bureaucrat complain about his work. He had been more useful than one would assume from appearances.

Shira and Soveliss incognito, having a religious debate with a Kir-in priest. Their support had been unexpected, but welcome.

Desdemona, looking over the crowd for danger. She hadn't given her support, but she needed the reliable money Istar provided.

Tybalt, trying to convince some of the newcomers to join. His resurrection and modification had been difficult, but worthwhile.

And, of course, Arcothotl himself. The leader of the allies was masquerading as a newcomer. If he made a show of fighting, but changed his mind eventually, it would weaken the position of the opposition.

They all played their parts. Alcibiades had contacts in the military and Pendraconic circles. Desdemona and Tybalt provided the brawn, Istar the money, Soveliss the power, Guy the diplomacy, and Arcothotl the guidance. They were nothing compared to Rax or Cyrus, but they were something. It was a good start.

They held these banquets in Veros every other week. They were small parties, only having a hundred people on average. Istar could count the number of people who trusted these parties on one hand. It was hard to win people over, especially when one's view was so… extreme. Inviting the Tora, Pendragon, and Imperials didn't make things easier.

Istar jumped as Shira tapped her on the shoulder. Soveliss's bodyguard was nearly silent when she wanted to be. Not that she wasn't talkative. Shira always had to make things difficult. Shira gestured to the large table where Soveliss was sitting. Tybalt and Alcibiades had joined him, the former Knight Draconian with a map under his arm. They were doing this now. Istar stood up and slowly wandered to the table. She could feel Shira's impatience.

The map detailed the Banter Archipelago. Desdemona brought markers of various types. Making a war table in the middle of a party was a foolish, if effective technique. Troop movements invited the attention of practically everyone. Istar grabbed a seat and made a show of studying the map. Desdemona placed a light blue marker to indicate Helbrythe bases, then began pushing around dark green stones, trying to find an optimal approach. Alcibiades put down an indigo disk for Rax's encampment. Tybalt began making notes on a piece of paper nearby on the Banter government's strategies. Arcothotl approached.

"Attacking Rax? I didn't think you were that foolish."

"Not Rax," Tybalt began, pausing to note something down, "everyone. The Helbrythe need to go too."

"That's ridiculous. Are you planning to take the whole island over?"

"Yes, actually, we are."

Arcothotl looked stunned, then hurriedly merged back into the nascent crowd. Istar smiled, despite herself. She often forgot just how good he was. Shira made a suggestion. and Alcibiades added on to it. Desdemona argued it. Soveliss came up with an alternate. Tybalt redirected it. That was how it went. They weren't trying to accomplish anything important, just catch the interest of the newcomers and convince people they were serious. Until now, only the big players could make a raid on a faction. Here, they were going to prove that no one, nothing, was invincible. It was going to take some of the most influential humans of the last Age, a small fortune, hundreds of lives - thousands if you counted the Helbrythe, knowledge from when gods walked the earth, and a little bit of luck, but it would happen.

Every good plan accepts that it needs luck.

They had chosen Rax as their primary target. She was one of the best-known and one of the most dangerous. She had made it personal by attacking Desdemona's soldiers. She was human, and thus predictable. Her bases were accessible without magic. Cyrus had been a close second, but few people really knew who Cyrus was.

Istar found herself smiling again. Looking around, Tybalt was grinning, too. So were Alcibiades and Guy. Even Shira seemed pleased. They were actually doing this. They were going to win.

* * *

After the party was over, Alcibiades, Arcothotl, and Istar walked home together. Istar had offered to share her home with them. The place was a mansion by Alcibiades' measure. He was used to soldier's housing in Vanagandr, not having four rooms all to himself. Istar and Arcothotl were walking silently, and Alcibiades didn't want to break the silence. Silence was best. The Veran rain pattered softly tonight. While Alcibiades carried a sword, and Arcothotl could respond to threats in his own way, the ex-knight felt unsafe in Veros, even during the day. In the deep night, anything could happen. His hand flicked to the hilt of his sword as a person rounded the corner in front of him. A woman, unarmed and hurrying to get home. Her cloak was wrapped closely around her to protect her from the rain. Alcibiades scolded himself for overreacting. He had to learn to prioritize. Hadn't he seen that woman before, though? Had she been at -

Alcibiades stepped back and to the side, trying to put himself between the woman and Istar. He tried to turn to face the woman, but he was too late.

 _CRACK!_

A burst of light flashed. Blood burst from Istar's chest. Arcothotl caught her, gesturing for Alcibiades to go, but the assailant had vanished into the night.

Alcibiades was still trying to get his vision back. Rax had sent an assassin after them. He had seen that one, too. He cursed himself for getting careless. Arcothotl was attempting to heal Istar, but, from what the soldier could see, it was bad. Rax's weapons were usually clean kills, a hole through the chest or head. Here it was sloppy, and the projectile must have been altered. It had torn through Istar's chest, fragmenting as it went. Arcothotl was clawing shrapnel out of her flesh, slowly warping his hands to work faster. Alcibiades looked around. If anyone saw them out here, it wouldn't be good for their image. The sound would attract arbiters, too. It was damnably distinctive. A scream? That could be ignored in Veros, but Rax trying to kill someone was a whole different matter.

Arcothotl called Alcibiades over. He had healed most of the wound, but Istar had lost consciousness. Alcibiades slung her over his shoulder. She would live. Arcothotl would make sure of that. That wasn't the problem. The problem wasn't even that Rax was keeping track of their actions. The problem was that she _cared._


	13. Offers and Operations

**Offers and Operations**

Grigori laughed. His guest was a vain and prideful man, one susceptible to praise. The Masked Man strolled to the lounge with the armand of House Gallant. This was the first time Grigori had seen the armand without armor on - literally and figuratively. The monarch had been invited for a private meal with his wife and daughter. Good food, copious amounts of drink, and Grigori's natural charisma had made the armand much less… strict. Grigori took a seat on a dark leather armchair, setting his drink down. A benefit of his unique abilities, alcohol had no effect on him. Gallant grabbed a chair facing Grigori. His wife sat next to him, and his young daughter lounged nearby.

"So, Grigori, how did you get that mask?" he said. "There are all manners of rumour about it."

"Oh, this?" Grigori said, waving a hand at his face. "That's a long story, and not an altogether pleasant one."

"Sir, I have spent half my life in the army. I doubt your tale will frighten me!"

The armand was growing slightly exaggerated in movements, speaking a bit more freely. Admittedly, his drink contained some last-minute additions.

"Of course not," Grigori said. "I merely wanted to alert you that the circumstances are perhaps unfitting for those of frailer states."

"Ah," the armand said, glancing at his daughter, "Beatrice? Would you like to rest in the dining room?"

As she began to rise, Gallant's wife rose as well.

"I will keep her company." Ursula said tersely. She did not seem to like Grigori.

Grigori and Gallant watched the two leave. The Masked Man rose to warm his hands by the fireplace. The winter's chill didn't bother him, but it allowed him to gain a height advantage and created a mien of light around him.

"This mask is of no real import," he began, his dry voice capturing the monarch's attention, "but the circumstances around its… attachment are most peculiar."

The monarch was silent.

"I was a young man at the time, looking for an advantage in House Lash. Their politics are most cutthroat, as you know. Rumours reached my ears of a witch in the mountains of House Mordred that would make deals with us mortals. In my foolishness, I made up my mind to visit this 'witch' and discover the truth of the matter. If this gave me an edge over my competitors, so be it."

Grigori glanced at the empty glass of the monarch.

"Allow me to get you another drink."

The monarch nodded. The necessary materials to create Grigori's favorite effect were difficult to acquire. Most of the materials were Veran in origin, but glassroot only grew near the glass oases in Tora Sharldum and shattering roses were indigenous to Yllalis and responded poorly to transport.

Grigori left his guest behind as he walked to the dining room. He spared a glance at Ursula's slumped body at the dining table and Beatrice twitching and convulsing on the floor as the seizures took her. Grigori sighed as he took a glass off the table and filled it with wine. He wasn't entirely sure if Beatrice was completely unconscious or if she knew the Masked Man was there. Grigori shook his head at her admonishingly, then strode back to the lounge.

"How are the girls?" Gallant asked.

"It seems like Ursula is somewhere that fits her abilities. Beatrice is looking a touch faint, however. I will make my story short."

The monarch looked momentarily concerned by Grigori's words, but a sip of the drink washed his worries away.

"As I was saying, I was intent on finding this 'witch' in the mountains. I hired a guide and set off into the range. Legend said that golden lights would show the path, and I was confident she was more than just myth. My guide was killed in an avalanche that buried our pack animals and materials, but I saw a path of gold curve through the mountains. Weary and cold, I found a small hut and opened the door. The woman there greeted me by name and asked me to sit down. She was not an old crone, although I could not say her age. Her most peculiar characteristic was her eyes. They were pure gold in color and spoke of great knowledge. She asked me what I wanted. I thought for a moment, and said that I wanted the power of deception. And so she granted me this."

The monarch stumbled to his feet.

"I had best be going," the armand said, "before Beatrice becomes too ill."

"Oh, I assure you that you won't have to worry about Beatrice."

Grigori stepped towards the ruler and slammed a knife into his chest. The illusory weapon wavered slightly as it cut, but it cut nonetheless.

"Wha - why?" the victim wheezed. "What about them?"

"To the first: your house is too stable." Grigori said, dismissing the blade. His voice was casual. "To the second: I don't know the particulars currently, but I have assured you won't have heirs."

The armand tried to curse, but blood was filling his lungs.

"You know what the worst part of it is?" Grigori said, almost to himself. "The story I told you? I lied."

Grigori left the house. It had been purchased for this intent, and the intent was fulfilled. The armand and his wife were dead, and if Beatrice was not, she would be soon. The night was cold but young, and there were so many things left to do.

There was a low hum in the air, one not from this world. Grigori stopped walking. A small orb of black metal floated towards him serenely. He did not recognize it, but its origin was clear. Grigori held out a hand, and the sphere dropped itself into his palm. It was roughly the size of his hand, and had no obvious rivets or seams. Suddenly, the top half melted into the lower, revealing an inner mass of silver and white metal in boards. Green letters appeared in the air above it.

 _I have a deal for you._

The night was yet young indeed.


End file.
